


Reset

by Quercusrobur



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Butt Plugs, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gags, I Got Angst in my Porn, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Restraints, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Strap-Ons, Temporary Character Death - Jack Harkness, The Valiant (Doctor Who), Weird Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quercusrobur/pseuds/Quercusrobur
Summary: Jack has a problem, and it's very inconvenient.No, a different problem.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Jack Harkness, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, The Doctor/Jack Harkness, Thirteenth Doctor/Jack Harkness, Twelfth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	Reset

**Author's Note:**

> Once there was a cracky plot bunny, and it hopped by and I laughed and started writing and then because my brand has been well described as "lovely and unexpectedly heartbreaking", I realised it wasn't actually funny at all, and then this happened, and, well. I got angst in my porn again. Nothing for six months and then I come back with this. Sorry!
> 
> Also, I never expected to write a sex scene with Thirteen, but here we are.

After a clusterfuck of a day involving ducks, a very predatory lending service, two dead aliens and three dead humans, one of whom was himself, Jack figured being a little bit _on edge_ was perfectly reasonable. But still, when Ianto offered his help in that quiet way of his, Jack had let his nerves get the best of him and started running off at the mouth again to put off saying the awkward part, which in hindsight was bad planning. Because Ianto _knows_ he talks like that, like a babbling brook, a stiff breeze of hyperactive innuendo-laden white noise that most people completely fail to make headway against, when he’s nervous - and he knows how to calm Jack down.

So Jack is naked on his knees in his office in the Hub, hands tied with a soft rope behind his back, bit gag set firmly between his teeth, and Ianto is rummaging in the toy box and Jack _still hasn’t said it_.

“I need to tell you something,” Jack tries to say, but it comes out as a string of garbled vowels.

Glancing up, Ianto sees him struggling and comes back to him, works strong fingers through his hair and pulls his face tight against the growing bulge in the front of Ianto’s trousers. Which is good, it’s fantastic, it’s just what he wants - usually. Jack makes more noises.

“Hsh, yes, I can see you’re having a hard time today. It’s alright. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” He holds Jack firm against him for a moment, pets his hair. The smell of him and the familiar position _are_ comforting and Jack relaxes, reassured; but then he steps away again. Jack moans, giving up on actual words. “I’m not going anywhere.” But he is - he goes back to the toy box and fishes out a medium-large plug. “This one?”

Jack shakes his head, relieved to be given input on the decision. Maybe that will take care of the problem.

That gorgeous, indulgent smile. "Bigger?" Ianto offers, well acquainted with his size queen tendencies. Jack shakes his head emphatically; Ianto's brow furrows. "Smaller?"

Jack nods, feeling self-conscious - which is something he tries to avoid feeling at all costs. It's just such a _ridiculous_ problem.

Producing a slightly smaller plug from the box, Ianto suggests, “This one?” Jack shakes his head. Actually frowning now, Ianto digs around in the box until he finds another, smaller one - but not small enough. Jack shakes his head again. “There _aren’t_ any smaller ones in here, Jack.” 

Of course there are - he knows for a fact he has smaller ones because it was just a few days ago - Jack sighs as he realises that they are still down by his cot where he left them. Reluctantly he tosses the comfortable-to-hold bit of broken alien tech he likes to use for his safe signal to the floor and then Ianto is kneeling next to him, gently extracting the bit from his mouth, untying his wrists and rubbing his hands.

Concerned eyes watching Jack closely, he asks, "What happened? Did I -"

"No," Jack says, cutting him off. He works his jaw, licks his lips. "No. Not you. I, erm, I need to tell you something." Ianto waits. Jack licks his lips again. Ianto makes an encouraging little motion with his head. "Erm." He's really starting to look worried now; if Jack doesn't quit waffling about he's going to be talking his boyfriend down from the ceiling instead of getting fucked tonight. "When I die, my body resets."

"Right," Ianto agrees, looking not the slightest bit more enlightened. Understandably.

"Not just to how it was right before I died," Jack clarifies. "To some ideal state. I don't know exactly how it works. I don't keep the tan. I keep the muscle memory, but not the muscle. I don't keep any… stretching."

"I suppose I've noticed that. But what does that have to do with -" He gestures vaguely, looking a bit lost.

Jack sighs. Nothing for it, then. "I'm as tight as a virgin, Ianto."

A startled squeak of laughter escapes before Ianto cuts it off. "Sorry! Sorry, it's not funny."

"It kind of is," Jack admits. He rubs his face, then leans forward to lay his head against his lover's shoulder. Arms encircle him reassuringly quickly. "It's awkward, is what it is, and completely impossible to work into conversation, so it always ends up like this…"

“Just like this,” Ianto says dryly.

“Well, no, not _exactly_. You don’t appreciate how good you have it now, you know, people have always had sex toys but at least I’ve finally made it back to a century I can go buy a proper selection of them in hygenic materials -” Ianto snorts, and his arms tighten.

"There you go again. Wait -" He sits back, hands still holding Jack's shoulders. "This isn't the first time you've died since we started doing this. I haven't noticed anything different."

"I usually take care of it myself," Jack says, looking away. "It's a nuisance. The smaller plugs are downstairs."

“They are? Oh. _Oh._ ” Jack risks a glance back at him only to find his face abstracted, lost in thought, a flush spreading over his skin. “So. Wait. Every time you die, you - those times you just _needed a little time_ before -” He swallows, eyes bright. Jack watches, confused but fascinated. “You were down there buggering yourself so I wouldn’t have to _bother?_ ”

“Erm. I guess that’s about the size of it, yeah.”

“ _For God’s sake,_ Jack -” He sounds like he is holding onto something for dear life. “Do you still want to do something tonight?”

“Yes?” Jack says, and promptly finds himself arse up, face mashed into the rug, gasping as determined hands spread him open and a warm, wet tongue probes at his tight hole.

“Oh my God,” Ianto moans, between lapping at him with the flat of his tongue and the occasional probing push. “You really are tight.” Jack moans, rocking back and forth just a little bit; each push reaches inside just a hair deeper, each time lighting up a few more nerves, opening him up just a tiny bit more. One hand shifts and then it’s a thumb rubbing gently around and over the ring of muscle, comfortably slick with spit. “You never took long, though. Doesn’t it hurt to stretch yourself so quickly?”

“Not much,” Jack mumbles, halfway to melting into a relaxed puddle. “And it gets us back to the fun parts quicker.”

“Oh,” Ianto says, the amused warmth in his voice sending a pleasant shiver through Jack, “fun parts we can do. But I have no intention of being _quick_. Stay there.” He hops up and Jack stays, shifting around slightly for comfort, watching his lover gather a few things through one half-open eye. He settles back at Jack’s side and there is the pop of a cap; then a slick finger is rubbing at Jack’s hole again. Not a thumb, which is nice of him although Jack wouldn’t have complained. It slides in as Jack moans and pushes back eagerly, moves inside him to set yet more nerves alight. Other hand rubbing slowly up and down Jack’s spine, Ianto says wryly, “Never thought _I’d_ be doing this to _you_.”

But it turns out he is very, very good at it.

He confiscates the smaller plugs with a proprietary air, after. Jack gets the message.

The predatory look Ianto pins him with the next time he gets himself killed has the other three clearing out of the Hub with significantly more alacrity than usual. “That’s it, teaboy,” Owen mutters, in what might be intended to be encouragement. “Make him regret his stupidity. Just spare me the details.”

“Oh, yes,” Ianto promises. “We are going to have a very long discussion about reckless behaviour and its effects and consequences.”

If said discussion is had sans clothing and with a lot of promises made that Jack doesn’t remember later, well, that’s probably one of those things he isn’t meant to discuss in polite company. Jack also does not point out that, as punishments go, this one is _completely_ failing to make the intended impression.

+-+

Sometimes it goes well, like that. Sometimes it’s an annoyance; sometimes he’s laughed at. It’s better to take care of it himself, as soon as possible. Reduces the opportunities for life to hand him new traumas.

The less said about the year on the Valiant, the better.

He dies often. Other things happen often, as well.

Not all the time; the Master is fickle, and Jack is no more comfortable to him than he is to the Doctor. Wrong. _You’re wrong, Jack._

But wrong or not, he knows where his loyalty lies.

He hides the problem for a long time. He lies to the Doctor’s face, because he can’t bear the silent horror in his eyes when the Master has Jack raped right in front of him. “Hey, you know me, lots of experience. It doesn’t hurt unless I want it to. Don’t worry about me, Doc, I’ll be fine.”

So it isn’t from Jack that the Doctor finds out about his inconvenient problem. It’s from the Master. “Sickening, isn’t he,” he says idly, watching Jack be tortured again. He joins in now and again, that idiotic laser screwdriver of his frying some random bit of Jack’s body. “How much experimenting did you say you’d done on him? Oh, that’s right, you’re too soft-hearted to do anything useful with your pets.” He laughs. “His body resets, but his mind doesn’t. Isn’t that fascinating? His mind remembers all the times I’ve done this to him. All the times he’s been raped. But _his body doesn’t_. Say bye-bye, Handsome Jack.”

When Jack revives, he barely has time to gasp his first breath before something thick and unyielding is forced into his arse. He screams before he can remember why he shouldn’t, then tries to bite it back with minimal success. The Doctor cries out as well, breaking his silence at last, but there is nothing he can do.

Jack looks away from the tears flowing down his face. They both know a little more pain doesn’t change the moral calculus of the choices they’ve made.

So he takes care of it himself, whenever he can, as soon as he can.

+-+

It takes the Doctor a very long time to forgive himself for what he let happen to Jack, which is stupid and Jack would much rather he just forget it and get on with life because even guilt has to have a statue of limitations that’s less than millennia -

It _has_ to, or what hope has he?

It’s a good couple hundred years into his next life, as best Jack can figure, before the Doctor is willing to entertain Jack’s flirting even as much as he did back at the very beginning. He is busy now, driven, sometimes desperately sad, sometimes terribly lonely - but maybe mostly just older, like Jack. They fit together better now.

The bowtie is adorable, and the jawline is to die for - although Jack tries not to, so as not to complicate things unnecessarily. 

The first time the Doctor does more than flirt back - and Jack thinks it’s the first time for both of them, which says something about how carefully the Doctor is coordinating their timelines, without saying a word about it - it’s just exhausted comfort-seeking, hands and mouths and tired breaths on easily satisfied skin. Jack gives him everything, expects nothing; he lies awake afterward guarding his dreams as his face relaxes to look painfully young in sleep.

They meet more out of order after that, the occasional context-free tryst. Jack never lets it get complicated, and he thinks, eventually, the Doctor forgets there is anything he needs to be careful of. It’s better that way.

+-+

They barely make it back to the TARDIS before the bickering turns physical, lips failing to hide sharp teeth, fingers rough and careless in their quest to reach skin and no less rough when they find it. Jack pauses for a moment when the Doctor spins him around and pins him against the console, warm metal against his bared thighs, bony hips and hard, thick cock against his arse. It wasn’t twenty minutes ago he had revived, found himself dumped like trash in an alley, and followed the sound of maximum confusion to find the Doctor and yank his arse out of the fire he had lit. He may have forgot to mention the dying part in the ensuing argument.

Slow and gentle isn’t part of their relationship anymore, if it ever was - especially at times like this. This is going to _hurt._

Jack takes a breath, pushes back against the Doctor to urge him on, and concentrates on relaxing as best he can.

It still hurts like hell.

The Doctor takes him hard and fast, just the way he usually likes but right now it’s too fast for the pain to soften into the kind he can get off on. If only he could have avoided _dying_ he would be having a really good time right now. He tries to make sure the Doctor, at least, is having a good time - but suddenly the Doctor is pushing himself away, pulling out entirely, well before either of them could possibly have finished. When Jack twists to see him, his expression is thunderous, those eyebrows darkening his eyes like storm clouds.

“We can’t do this if you keep martyring yourself.”

Jack stumbles away and sits down hard, all the breath knocked out of him by the simple statement. Maybe he _had_ mentioned -? Was this punishment? But he had thought the Doctor _understood_ , thought he had resolved his complicated relationship with Jack’s immortality, given up the guilt and disgust both and come to agree with Jack that it is simply a part of him now, his life a tool to be used as necessary just as much as the body that might leap to the rescue, the mind that might devise a clever solution -

The Doctor is scowling at him in consternation, fists on shirt-tail covered hips, trousers about his ankles. “I’m sure I don’t see - I'm just asking for -" His arms fall slack to his sides. " _Oh_. Poor choice of words on my part, I didn't mean - don't _look_ like that, Jack, bloody hell, I'm just sick of you letting me hurt you!"

"So you're…" Jack wets his lips anxiously, trying to make sense of the sudden change of direction and ignore the throbbing ache he is sitting on whilst a part of him wonders just what he does look like. "You're not angry I got myself killed again."

" _No_. Well. No more than usual, anyway, certainly not enough to be - did you think I was _breaking up with you,_ Captain?" The Doctor sounds horrified, but it’s mostly at the idea of having something so domestic as a relationship that might take breaking up, Jack suspects. He shakes his head, mostly truthfully. "I am _angry_ ," the Doctor says, scowling again, "that you seem to believe me incapable of behaving with even a modicum of consideration, and therefore don't even bother to _tell_ me, and indeed _conceal_ the fact from me, that I am about to hurt you." 

"I'm -"

"In a way I would _strongly prefer_ to avoid!" he adds. Not forgotten, then.

Feeling very small, Jack says, "I'm sorry."

After another moment of glaring at him, the Doctor's eyes soften and he bends to retrieve his trousers. "To be clear, Captain," he says, tucking himself away, "I do not consent to hurting you, unwitting."

Jack winces. He hadn't thought of it like that. He stands, and winces again. "I understand. I'll tell you, in future."

"Good." With the hint of a smile, the Doctor looks him over. "For your information, I am perfectly capable of consideration. Perhaps we could try again later. It's as good a way as any to use this year’s allotment."

It turns out bossy and demanding intersects with slow and gentle right around methodical and _utterly impervious to abject begging_. Which makes a very good place to be, for a surprisingly long period of time.

+-+

Still high on the giddy success of a large-scale plan falling into place _perfectly_ , a peaceful revolution with not a single casualty, Jack turns from the doors and swoops up the Doctor to dance her about the console room. Now that the TARDIS is theirs again, they can celebrate _properly_. Or, even better, improperly.

“Next time you have a plan that requires me to hang around somewhere for fifteen years,” Jack says, nuzzling into the Doctor’s neck, soaking up the smell of her, “you better also plan to drop by occasionally.”

She squirms in his arms. “Ugh, you’re like a giant puppy, Captain, get off -”

“Mm, yeah, good idea. You going to help?” He licks her jaw, the shell of her ear, hands spread wide across her back to feel every bit of her he can.

“Down, boy!” Hands sliding down to the curve of her arse, Jack drops to his knees and grins up at her. She rolls her eyes, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “Missed me, did you?”

“Almost every day.”

Mock offended, she huffs, “Almost!”

“Well, some days I was -”

“I don’t want _details_ , you great arse,” the Doctor groans, fingers winding through Jack’s hair to shake him gently. He leans in and buries his face in the front of her loose trousers, in service of making her groan in more satisfying ways. The Doctor lets him for a moment, then pulls him away. “Go on then. My room.”

Hopping to his feet, Jack yelps happily at the swat she aims at his great arse - amazing the things she can make sound like insults - and darts away, fingers already working at his buttons. 

This incarnation’s bedroom is mostly an absolutely fantastical pit of pillows and he loves it. Pillows are good for so many positions - and they’ve tried a lot - but his favourite is simply leant over the side of it, knees on the sunken mattress, chest on the floor, the Doctor behind him making him scream. It’s some synergistic combination of being bent over something, being pushed against a wall, and being on his knees on the floor and he could _never_ get enough of it. And he hasn’t seen it in _fifteen years_. 

Jack has only just finished relieving himself and shucking all his clothing when the Doctor appears, which is remarkably quick - she must have missed him as well. Sans coat, braces dangling below her hips, she pulls off her boots as soon as she is in the room and sets them by the door, balls up her socks and tosses them toward the door to the loo, then turns to consider Jack appraisingly as she pulls off her jumper. It joins the socks; Jack joins her.

“Always so impatient,” the Doctor says, wriggling against him in a way that strongly suggests she _likes_ him impatient. She raises her arms as Jack works her bra off, tipping her face up to demand a kiss as he tosses it away as well. Cool fingertips slide down his chest, over his hips, settle on his arse to pull them together firmly.

“Fifteen years,” Jack reminds her, a bit breathy as he rocks his hips. “I should get a medal for patience.”

“I’m sure I've got something better than a medal around here,” the Doctor says, and pushes him backward into the pit of pillows. Jack squawks, and flails, and lands with a very satisfying thump and a raging boner. Sprawled extravagantly, Jack watches as she unbuttons her trousers and pouts obligingly when she turns away with a teasing look at the last moment to let them drop. It isn’t as though the rear view is somehow worse; that impatient shimmy at the interaction of hips and knickers is a delight every time. Kicking away her remaining clothing on the way, the Doctor wanders to the toy drawer. “Fifteen patient years,” she muses as she buckles on her harness. “Certainly warrants something special. How about this?”

She turns and a jolt of electric _want_ strikes straight through Jack. The cock she picked is new to him, a bit curved, a few well-defined bumps, bright in swirling rainbow stripes and _deliciously_ large -

Wait. No one had died - except him. In the culmination of a completely unrelated trade negotiation earlier in the day, that hadn’t even been _meant_ to be lethal; it had been an allergic reaction, of all the embarrassing ways to die. But things had got so busy so soon after -

“Uh, no,” Jack says, wincing. He had promised to tell, and he had better do so. Even if it is a bit belated. “Something a little smaller, please.” Her eyes narrow suspiciously. Weakly, Jack adds, “Just at first?”

“You said,” she says, hands on harnessed hips, “there was no dying.” Her cock juts out imperiously, bobbing just slightly as she shifts forward to frown at Jack. He can’t quite look away. She shifts again, and then snorts softly. “My eyes are up here, Captain.” As his gaze snaps to her face, Jack wonders how much groveling he is going to need to do. Instead he finds the Doctor’s frown has transformed into a wry, disgruntled smile. She shakes her head. “At least with you that’s a perfectly normal problem.”

Smirking hopefully, Jack tries distraction. “People looking at you a little differently lately?”

“Mostly no,” she says, frowning thoughtfully. “But sometimes yes, but only some of them, and it’s been very confusing. Jack! No distracting. Why did you say there was no dying? You promised to tell me.”

“I did!” Jack protests. It had been _extracurricular_ , that’s why. “Just now. When it became relevant.”

“It was relevant when I _asked!_ ”

That assertion is… surprisingly difficult to argue with. Instead Jack flops to his belly in the pile of pillows, spreading his legs slightly, letting his back arch as he wriggles a bit to get comfortable. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

“Mmmnnnn- well,” she says, apparently not quite willing to commit to _nope_. Jack grins into the pillows. He feels her settle to the mattress behind him and parts his knees a bit further; her hands slide up the insides of his thighs and he moans. "How do you usually… deal with this?"

"Expediently," Jack admits. "Today just got so busy. Toys if I'm near home, fingers if I have to. Inflatable plug if I can get it. Those muscles relax better from the inside, it's just how they're built."

“Show me?” the Doctor asks, sounding oddly hesitant.

Surprised, Jack twists to look over his shoulder at her, then twists right back the other way to bury his face in the pillow and groan. She is knelt there between his knees so damn beautiful, eyes gleaming behind her bright fall of hair, slim curves softening the sharp angles she always seems made of, that gorgeous new cock jutting from her lap. Jack is _aching_ to sink down onto it, feel it deep inside. _Impatient_ doesn’t describe the half of it. It’s not a dignified process, he rarely even bothers enjoying it, and he’ll need a _lot_ of stretching to take _that_ , but here, for her - “Sure, yeah. You have a preference?” The Doctor’s hand smooths over his arse, thumb trailing down the centre to press against his hole. Jack shudders and pushes back against her with a needy little whine.

“No, I just… want to see. What I’ve been missing. If that’s alright.” Her thumb keeps stroking him, so light it’s nearly ticklish. Jack risks looking back at her again, and she waves her other hand to the side. “We have a selection.” It sounds like a question; Jack suspects the TARDIS has more to do with the selection than the Doctor does.

What she’s been missing? It’s nothing to miss, from Jack’s perspective, but it was never his intention to make her feel left out.

So he gives her a show.

The Doctor doesn’t let him hurry any bit of it, always a hand on him moving slow and calming, sometimes gently pressing a toy back in if she thinks he isn’t done with it yet. For someone so flighty her patience for the exercise is incredible; she keeps it up until he is reduced to a whining, whimpering mess, utterly desperate for more than the slow, gradual stretch, cock leaking slick streaks on everything it brushes against. When she finally takes hold of a toy and pulls instead of pushing it back in he nearly loses himself.

Something new then, her fingers pushing in to test how relaxed he is - “Please,” Jack begs, willing himself open and relaxed with all his might, “I’m ready, I can take it, you won’t hurt me, I _promise_ , please, Doctor -” 

The fingers are gone, hand under his chest - “Up, Captain, come on now,” and Jack scrambles up from where he lay collapsed face down in the pillows to drape himself over the edge of the pit without a care for artistic sensibilities, just easy access -

The Doctor follows him without hesitation and Jack is barely in place when he feels the blunt pressure of her cock come to rest against his arse. The bulbous head of it is still a stretch but she holds him down against the floor and presses in slowly, so slowly, glacially slowly. He takes it without pain as he promised, just open mouthed gasps of need. In the first action Jack unreservedly approves of since the Doctor sent him to her room, the slow penetration doesn’t stop to let him get used to it but keeps going and going, deeper and deeper; another bump, not quite as big as the first, and another, and by the time he feels the thickening at the base the head is so far inside him it _does_ hurt, stretching him that way as well - but it’s the good kind of hurt, and he wants _more_.

Once she is fully inside the Doctor pauses, hands rubbing up and down Jack’s back as he pants, sharp little noises escaping as his muscles twitch around the length impaling him. Then she starts pulling out, just as slow, and it’s somehow even _better_ \- the uncontrollable jerking of Jack’s hips just adds to the experience. One bump, and two - he can feel the stretch of the head at his entrance - and then she snaps her hips forward and Jack screams as she buries herself to the hilt in him again, and comes in a sudden rush of heat when she repeats the motion. She fucks him hard through it, then settles into the quick, short thrusts that mean she is chasing her own orgasm once Jack has collapsed into a limp, blissed wreck.

When she is done she pulls Jack down into the pillows and snuggles around him, an unlikely big spoon. He makes a vague effort to correct the direction, but she doesn’t let him. “Indulge me,” she whispers, and Jack can’t imagine refusing. So instead he indulges himself too, and reaches back to find her cock so he can wriggle himself back down onto it.

“Stretching,” Jack offers as a very poor excuse. The Doctor laughs at him.

And pulls him closer.


End file.
